It’s Time to Talk

For ages on this site, I have been uploading old poems that I’ve written and I think I’m getting to a point that a large part of me still fears. The large majority of my poetry comes from a dilemma I’m having or some pain that I’m feeling and it helps me to cope with it, to come to terms with it and sometimes get over whatever it is. Sometimes only time actually heals me, but in that time period the pain I feel can be all consuming. I’m not too sure if, in some of those times, my writing comes across wrong although perhaps those are just my own self doubt issues.

Recently my poems have been newer ones which in itself I consider brave as that’s when it feels like an open, raw flesh wound that I’m exposing to all of the bacteria, viruses and parasites of the world. What seems to scare me more though is uploading some of the older poems. I guess they are all topic dependent, and one particular topic in particular. I’m worried that people will read them and forget the timeframe in which they were written, that whatever pain I was in all those years ago is now long gone, that not only was I in what I considered a real pain, I was also younger and far more naive than now. That will all easily reflect in the writing, the words, the sentiment.

Nine years ago yesterday marked the beginning of the worst year of my life so far; that was the day that the heartbreak and loss began. In every year there are four seasons and during that year I lost four people. They were all very different types of people. Some of them hurt most at that point, some of them hurt for years. It’s sad to say that the one who started it all passed me by yesterday and I didn’t even notice.

I’m not sure if the word I want is irony because, I think, a lot of people always get the definition wrong. Perhaps all I mean is it is a coincedence because I was going to write this blog earlier in the week as I had already decided it was time to upload those poems. It would not have been what it now is simply because I was reminded of what yesterday was.

My original, intended point was that the poetry I’m planning on starting to post is, it’s now in the past. Whatever I then felt, it has to be assumed I’m now over it to some great extent. I think I’d wanted to clarify that it takes differing times to heal from different things and that, perhaps, the things that should hurt most maybe don’t. Almost a decade ago, I lost people that were important to me and less than five years ago I went through a period where I wrote a lot about only one of the losses. It could be considered late in the day, or pathetic that it took me that long to work through things and that it still upset me so much, but that’s how it happened.

It dawned on me though, soon after I realised that I had completely forgotten yesterday’s significance, that other losses haunted me more. Somehow that feels wrong – the greater loss, the one that cannot ever be replaced did not take as long to get over as another that can be resolved. I know that three of the four were inevitable and more predictable than a plot-line of Hollyoaks so the fact that the surprise one took the longest to resolve in my heart and mind is not so bad, it just seems disrespectful and shameful that I can still think about it and yet I had no idea what yesterday was.

Maybe that’s the real reason behind being scared to reveal those poems. It isn’t because I’m worried what people will think about my juvenile style, my obsession over something that I should have just grown a pair and gotten over, but because whilst I recognise that pain and the hurt caused, I don’t acknowledge someone of a far greater importance. Isn’t it the wrong way around and doesn’t that make me all levels of awful?

On that bright and cheery note,

Happy weekend folks,

~ PersephoneM

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